


Sugar and Spice

by Miya_Morana



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Slash if you squint, what is this even i don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 11:44:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5495882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miya_Morana/pseuds/Miya_Morana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The blond one is making a mess in the kitchen,” Illyria says flatly. “He also called me blue Grinch when I pointed it out. What kind of god is Grinch?”</p><p>“Not a god,” Angel replies, wondering what Spike is doing this time. </p><p>“Not a good comparison then,” Illyria says before heading up the stairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar and Spice

**Author's Note:**

> Little Christmas gift for my friend Avee.

Wolfram & Hart is no more, and Angel Investigations moved back into the Hyperion hotel. Spike tagged along, because really he has no other place to go to, and he did help save the world after all. (“Twice!” he would insist on pointing out.)

So here they are, what’s left of the old group, plus Spike and Illyria, helping the people of Los Angeles when the police can’t, killing evil demons and occasionally helping out the not-so-evil ones. Angel does appreciate the fact that spending a year running Wolfram & Hart has left his bank account much fuller than it’s ever been though, which means that they get to help without having to worry about paying the bills. He would still appreciate it if people stopped throwing things (or other people) through the glass doors, though.

Illyria wanders through the hall as the day’s clients leave with Angel’s reassurance that they’d take care of the padachunds nesting under their porch. She cocks her head, looking at Angel with a puzzled look.

“The blond one is making a mess in the kitchen,” she says flatly. “He also called me blue Grinch when I pointed it out. What kind of god is Grinch?”

“Not a god,” Angel replies, wondering what Spike is doing this time. 

“Not a good comparison then,” Illyria says before heading up the stairs.

Angel internally debates for a second whether to start researching padachunds right away, but his curiosity gets the best of him and he heads for the hotel kitchens, where he finds Spike...baking?

Illyria was right, he did make a mess of things. There’s flour everywhere, including in Spike’s hair, and trays of various biscuits and pastries scattered around the room, some of them balancing on top of pots. An alarm starts beeping somewhere and Spike puts his rolling pin down and dashes to the other side of the room to open an oven and take out a tray of muffins.

“What the…?” Angel asks, looking at the insane amount of food around him.

“It’s Christmas!” Spike replies with an excited smile.

“But we don’t eat,” Angel reminds him, baffled.

“No, but the people in Anne’s shelter do,” Spike replies.

Anne had come over a couple of months earlier, asking for help with a gang of vampires who were taking advantage of the fact her homeless shelter was officially open to anyone who needs it. For some reason that eluded Angel, Spike had taken a liking to her.

“You, you, are making things for strangers?” Angel asks, to make sure he got that right.

“Isn’t it what we do?” Spike replies. “Helping the helpless and all that?”

“I suppose…” Angel trails off, not quite sure what to make of it.

“All right, all right, the truth is, I like to bake,” Spike says. “But almost nobody here eats, and those who do wouldn’t touch anything I made. As if I needed poison to kill anyone,” Spike huffs haughtily. “Oh, since you’re here, help me roll the truffles.”

“What the what?” Angel asks, very eloquently.

Spike doesn’t reply, instead he grabs a big bowl full of some chocolaty dough out of the fridge and clears some space on a table (by piling up more trays on top of things that should not have trays on them). He then pours a copious amount of cocoa powder in a plate and grabs two spoons, with which he starts making misshapen balls of chocolate. He looks pointedly at Angel.

“What do I do?” Angel asks hesitantly, walking towards the table.

“You roll the truffles in the cocoa,” Spike tells him, the “obviously” hanging in the air, even though unsaid. “Then you put them in the box.”

“What box?”

Spike frowns, lifts up a couple of trays until he finds a large metal box, which he hands over to Angel with a triumphant smile.

“This is weird,” Angel says, diligently rolling the chocolate truffles into the cocoa.

“You sound as boring as Illyria,” Spike snorts.

“I’m not boring,” Angel complains.

“Sure you’re not, Angel Cakes,” Spike smirks.

Angel responds by throwing a handful of cocoa to Spike’s face, who just laughs.

“There you go, that’s the spirit!”

“You’re impossible,” Angel says, shaking his head, but he can’t hold back the smile stretching his lips.


End file.
